Lirriel's blog

The camp was on alert, the warriors standing at attention with weapons drawn. They watched as Alynore rode up on Tenacity, the charger’s wings of Light flaring and keeping them away. The other Dragoons waited a few yards behind. More Dragoons and Meddlers waited in the hills for the Commander’s signal. Nore dismounted, Tenacity pawing the ground. She glanced up as the shadow of a large bird passed overhead.

She stood in her heavy armor, wearing her weapons, straightening her tabard, and waiting on Og’roc to step forward. He had agreed to the ritual of exchange, trading Jormund for a much higher priority prisoner—the Commander of the Silver Dragoons. There was ceremony here for the orcs, almost sacred in how it was meant to play out.

((This took forever. Previous entries in my blog here and on tumblr!))

Rhiswyn dropped the orc disguise as the rolling hills dipped and curved, hiding her from the village’s sights. Yshul should have been waiting in a small copse of trees that reminded her of evergreens, when the path began to wend its way upwards again.

Felhounds were waiting instead. Three of the magic-eating monsters rushed the priest, the surprise paralyzing her for a moment.

“This is a terrible idea,” Yshul said as Rhiswyn used the enchanted trinket. A Shadowmoon orc suddenly replaced the half-elf; even her clothes were enchanted to look like a shaman’s robe.

“Quite probably, dear, but choices are limited,” Rhiswyn said. Her voice was gruffer than normal, which could only help the disguise. It had been two days since her Light-fire had burned a chunk of the Blademoon Bloom, and the smoke—and likely the screaming—had affected her throat. “We need to get to the bottom of this. Hatchlings have died, and the children could be next.” When Rhiswyn had brought back her samples of the berries, D’lina had told her about the hatchlings. Several of the children were getting worse. The berries were waiting for testing in stasis while Rhiswyn searched for the next probable source.

The beauty of Blademoon Bloom was not lost on the half-elf priest cautiously navigating along the streams and down the flowery paths into the heart of the growth. The dangers inherent were not to be ignored, either.

Rhiswyn had already been warned about the large pink flowers that would emit a noxious gas to put someone to sleep, to await pick up by the botani. Fireflies moved in languid arcs through the air, focused around short pillars lining the pathways. In the shadows off the trail, mandragora hissed and splashed in the water. The air was thick and heady with floral smells and spore bursts, and the loamy scent of fertile earth.

Moons and planets glowed overhead, making the smooth road as brightly lit as any day. Rhiswyn lounged in the back of the trader’s wagon, enjoying the ride as she watched the sky. She had been wanting to see the Draakorium and its fey drakes for weeks now, and this time while her darling was off in Auchindoun seemed perfect for such distractions.

The wagon pulled up short, the talbuks suddenly snorting and pawing as the old trader tried to calm them. Rhiswyn sat up and looked at the road ahead. A barricade and guard in leather armor stood in the way, an apologetic look on his broad blue face. “Sorry, friends. I cannot allow you into the Draakorium. There is a sickness here.”

Her fingers wouldn’t curl around the handle of the mug. Her hand jerked as she tried to compensate, and the cup tipped over. The smaller, lighter troop models swept across the representation of Nagrand in a tide of coffee.

((Ended up as a follow-up to "Tongue Tied" given timing...Takes place pre-Portal rushing))

Nore watched as Daevra finished the engravings on a pair of truegold bands. Normally, the commander would have asked Harrigan—but his injuries were going to keep him from such detail work for some time, and the push through the Portal was coming any day now.

She must have dozed off, lying across Wesley’s draconic neck and shoulders after leaving the faire and relaxing together by Olivia’s Pond, the city lights blocked by hills and rustling trees. It was a lovely autumn night off, and for both of them at the same time.

He gently woke her as they landed in front of the apartment. “I blame the Darkmoon Reserve,” Nore muttered. He chuckled, shifting from stone drake to worgen, offering her an arm to lean on as they went upstairs.

“So there we were, fighting a few orcs. One of them cracked his axe against my head. Broke my goggles; I felt the enchants just melt. I got knocked to the ground, cuz ow. Axe came back down, I rolled out of the way, felt something go THUNK and come loose and for a minute thought I'd lost part of my skull and hadn't realized it yet. Nope; just my hair.” Alynore took a swig of her drink, listening to the music in the Blue Recluse.

Rhiswyn idly paged through a romance novel. She had already read it, but there was nothing else to do. Jormund visited when he could, though the debate continued upstairs as to her disposition. The Crusade’s inquisitors could not determine how much truth she told.